


The Likes of Me

by Farasha



Series: Yuletide Smut 2015 [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover in name only, Discworld References, Hero Worship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farasha/pseuds/Farasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin is sure that Bofur - famous knockerman, luck-touched, gorgeous - wants nothing to do with the likes of him, grizzled old warrior that he is. And Bofur is equally sure that Dwalin - royal blood, war hero, solid as the mountain itself - wants nothing to do with a dead dwarf walking.</p><p>Good thing they're both wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Likes of Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baggvinshield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggvinshield/gifts).



Dwalin knew _of_ Bofur son of Lofur, of course. Anyone who paid attention to anything in Ered Luin knew about the most successful knockerman this side of the Misty Mountains, who had somehow been going down to the mines and doing his job for nigh forty years now and still had all his limbs attached. Dwalin may have been a warrior, and of the line of Durin, but that kind of bravery was beyond any courage he'd had to muster on the battlefield. In battle, a warrior could rely on his own skill. A knockerman in the mines could calculate the force of an explosion to the best of their ability, but still left their lives in the hands of chance when they slingshotted their burning bundle of rags into a gas pocket.

Rumors made a dwarf out to be different than he was, more often than not. Dwalin knew that better than many, having been the subject of rumor more than once. Still, the rumors about Bofur - that he was somehow charmed, had the hand of Mahal himself on him, always won at dice and could be relied on to buy a round for the tavern if someone miraculously managed to beat him - were outlandish enough to nearly be believable. How else did a dwarf explain having the most dangerous job a miner could have for _decades_ and walking away from it unscathed day after day?

The thing was, Dwalin never expected to actually _meet_ Bofur. Famous knockermen didn't find their way into soldier's bars and tussle with the guards between pints. They certainly didn't consort with the likes of him, a scarred old warrior with more failed campaigns under his belt than successful ones.

"I have an unexpected volunteer," Thorin told him one day, when they sat down for a pint to go over the size and shape of their Company so far. Dwalin still privately thought the lot of it was a fool's errand, but he would follow Thorin to the ends of Middle Earth if his king asked, so here he was.

"It's not the bloody runts again, is it? I'll scalp 'em both if they try to sneak out after us." Dwalin grumbled into his tankard.

Thorin's mouth twitched - there was a day when he would have smiled outright, maybe even laughed at Dwalin's joke. Those days were long behind them, though. "I don't believe I'll be able to stop my sister-sons from following me if I tie them up in sacks. They're coming, whether Dis or I like it or not."

"She's going to murder you in your sleep before you have a chance to go."

"There's a good chance of that, yes," Thorin said, unconcerned about the possibility of imminent fratricide. "The unexpected volunteer I was referring to was Bofur son of Lofur."

Dwalin nearly choked on his ale. "The knockerman?"

"The same. His cousin, Bifur son of Nofur, volunteered as well."

"I remember Bifur from-" Dwalin stopped himself before he said _Azanulbizar_ and covered his near gaff with a long drink. "Good fighter. Knows his way around a battlefield."

"Bofur didn't claim much skill with a weapon," Thorin said. 

Dwalin grunted. The quest was likely to be dangerous, and having someone who didn't know which end of the sword was the pointy bit might not be a good idea. Still. "A dwarf that goes down into a dark mine after explosive gas day after day and comes back alive at the end of it is a good dwarf to have on a quest to slay a dragon. At least we'll know he isn't afraid of fire."

That made Thorin's eyes crinkle. It was the closest he'd come to a true smile in a long time. "Yes, I'd say he isn't to have a job like that. Bifur is a good warrior, as you said. Maybe some of his skill rubbed off on his cousin."

"You're like to take both of them, from the sound of it."

The crinkling around the eyes, the slight upturn of Thorin's mouth, faded like it had never come. "At this point, we need all the help we can get."

Three days later found them in a different tavern, one more frequented by miners than soldiers. Dwalin's estimation of the grubby little establishment rose considerably after he'd put away three of the sweet cakes the barmaid assured him were excellent (they were), ignoring Thorin's dry comments that they would have to roll him onto his pony if he kept this up. He was in the middle of washing the last of them down with his ale when Bofur finally arrived. He had no hesitation about striding right up to their table, plunking down in the chair across from them without so much as a by-your-leave, and propping his boots up on the table edge.

Dwalin had expected someone serious, perhaps even dour. A dwarf that spent a large portion of his life in the mines, purposefully seeking out danger and risking life and limb to remove it for the other miners, was the kind of dwarf that Dwalin expected to have gravity about him.

The last thing he expected was a dwarf who was a full head shorter than him, whose smile split his face at the tiniest provocation, who spoke with a thick brogue and gestured expansively with his hands. Bofur son of Lofur seemed like he didn't have a care in the world, and looked at the prospect of going toe-to-toe with a dragon with nearly _gleeful_ anticipation.

"Treasure, travel, free ale, and an adventure fit for a thrilling ballad if I've ever heard one," Bofur said, as he balanced his chair on two legs and grinned wide enough to carve dimples into his cheeks. "When do we leave?"

Dwalin couldn't tear his gaze away from the bright glitter of Bofur's eyes under the brim of his ridiculous hat. He hoped the ale would be adequate explanation for the flush he felt creeping up his face and ruthlessly shoved the attraction aside. A famous knockerman wasn't going to be interested in the likes of _him_ , after all.

*

When Bofur told his brother that he'd signed on for a fool quest following Thorin son of Thrain halfway across Middle Earth to slay a dragon and reclaim a lost kingdom, he hadn't expected the response.

"Thank _Mahal_ ," Bombur said, and promptly dusted off his old traveling pack. "At least with the dragon, there's a good chance he's a rotting pile of scales by now. Much less chance of dying messily by fire."

"What are you doing?" Bofur asked, watching his brother sort through travelling cloaks he hadn't even known Bombur _owned_.

"Coming with you, of course. I hate to say the explosions might have rattled your brain, but there was a time you didn't need to ask silly questions when the answers were right in front of you."

"Y'can't come," Bofur protested. When his brother turned on him with a bristling moustache and his travel pack raised like a cudgel, Bofur hastily added, "You've got the wee ones to think about, they can't have their da tearing off into the wilderness to go fight a dragon."

"Oh yes, and Uncle Bofur going off to do the same is so much better." Bombur lowered his pack only long enough to stuff his cloak in it.

"That's not the least bit fair. They've known I might not come home their whole lives - it's different when it's their da."

Bombur stopped short, in the middle of sorting through his cookware, and his knuckles tightened on the counter. "They've heard you say it, but they're still young enough not to believe it. They think you're invincible. Longest living knockerman Ered Luin has ever known."

Bofur swallowed around a suddenly dry throat, averting his eyes from the way Bombur stood with careful stillness. He still remembered the shouting match when he had first taken the job. Forty years ago and counting and his ears were still ringing with it. It paid well - it had to, in order to convince supposedly sound-minded dwarves to go looking for pockets of explosive gas so they could purposefully blow them up. It brought with it more renown than Bofur thought he'd ever merit in his life. And true, he did seem touched by Durin's own luck. The worst he'd ever lost was all the hair on one side of his head, and it grew back.

He wasn't reckless enough to think that luck would last forever, though. Bofur knew full well that if he kept at it, he'd die down there one day - alone, in the echoing dark, consumed by fire.

If he was going to die by fire, he was going to do it for something a sight more noble than opening up a new mine shaft.

Because the thing was, knockermen were renowned and talked highly of when they were alive, but nobody sang about them when they were gone. Everyone expected their luck to eventually run out, and when it did, there might be a few words about how they lasted longer than most over their funeral bier (if there was even anything left of them to recover), but they all eventually faded into anonymity.

Call Bofur a romantic, but if they were successful in this fool quest, it would put the Ur family name on the map for good.

He should have known Bombur wouldn't let him go on his own - and if Bombur was in, he was willing to bet Bifur wouldn't be long behind. Bofur didn't _dislike_ the idea of all three of them going on an adventure together, it was only what waited for them at the end of it that gave him pause.

Still, it was worth a shot. "You're going to pack half the house."

"If I'm going to be walking the wilds from here to Erebor, I'm going to make sure I have everything I need." Bombur considered two spice jars for a moment before putting one of them back. "One of us has to - if I left it up to you, you'd stuff a handful of dirty shirts and your pipe into your pack and call it a day."

"I would not!" Bofur protested, and waited until Bombur turned around again with both eyebrows raised before adding, "You left out my hat."

Bombur snorted. "Yes, the hat. The one you only started wearing when you got tired of catching your braids on fire."

"That's not the _only_ reason. It's right comfortable, too," Bofur said. "Keeps the head warm."

"Keeps your brains from getting addled any more than they already are," Bombur shot back.

Bofur decided it might be best to beat a strategic retreat, before his brother started in on any of his other less than flattering qualities. He had a contract to sign anyway.

He had expected Thorin to be at the small tavern where he usually spent his time dicing after a shift - Bofur had prepared himself to expect Thorin, in fact. It wasn't every day that a miner got to meet an exiled prince, and Thorin had a _presence_ to him that was hard to ignore. Bofur saw looks directed at the table where Thorin and his companion sat, wide-eyed looks that seemed to indicate the lookers didn't quite believe there was real life dwarf royalty sitting in their midst.

What Bofur had not expected was for Dwalin son of Fundin to be there with said dwarf royalty, although he really should have. He knew _of_ Dwalin, of course - the famous warrior of the line of Durin, who was never far from the king-in-exile or his family. Word had it that Dwalin had killed hundreds of orcs himself during the Azanulbizar campaign, that he was like an unstoppable force of nature in battle, an avalanche with twin axes.

From the rumors, Bofur would have thought Dwalin was stiff, a stoic dwarf whose only thought was for his king. Instead, as Bofur hung in the doorway trying to muster up the courage to approach them, he saw Dwalin watched rapidly reduce a sweet cake to crumbs and treat the barmaid who came to collect the plate to a small smile that looked quite nearly shy. He was big - tall for a dwarf, broad as warriors tended to be, with tattoos over his shaved head. Bofur, chest fluttering with a feeling he tried valiantly to swallow, wondered if those were the only tattoos he sported, or if they continued... elsewhere.

 _Bit forward of you there, Bo_ , said an inner voice that sounded very like his brother's. Bofur masked his nervousness with a broad grin and a bit of swagger, tossing himself into the chair opposite Thorin and Dwalin like he wasn't the least bit intimidated by either of them. Even if they were to be traveling companions, it was likely Dwalin would stick close to the royals. Maybe it was a good thing Bombur and Bifur were going to be coming along. Famous warriors of royal blood didn't tend to consort with the likes of _him_ , after all.

*

In the end, it wasn't only Bofur and Bifur who joined the Quest, but Bofur's brother Bombur as well. Dwalin tried to be subtle about watching the three of them as he rode at the rear of the Company. Bombur rode behind the other two, keeping a weather eye on his brother - it seemed their cook had mostly signed on to keep Bofur out of trouble, and took his commitment to that goal very seriously. Bifur, whose injury prevented him from managing Westron and whose Khuzdul was outdated at best and hopelessly ancient at worst, communicated through hand-sign. His was a combination of the soldier's and miner's signs, a strange mishmash of which Dwalin only caught half the words.

Bofur on the other hand seemed fluent in his cousin's piecemeal Iglishmêk, deft fingers flying through the signs. Dwalin tried not to dwell on thoughts of Bofur's dexterity and what other uses it might be applied to. The attraction had not lessened from their first meeting - if anything, it had gotten worse. Bofur was _funny_ , always quick with a joke, and the way he'd merrily prodded their burglar with thoughts of messy death until the hobbit had fainted dead away still made Dwalin smile to think of it. 

Bofur's irrepressible cheer was infectious. Dwalin caught himself staring and wrenched his eyes away to do his actual job of scanning the treeline for threats to the Company, but his attention gravitated back as if pulled by a lodestone when Bofur began regaling the hobbit with unlikely tales of his exploits in the mines.

"You do _what?_ " Bilbo had asked, aghast. "On _purpose?_ "

Bombur had a distinct look of vindication about him at that, but Bofur only lit up with his sun-bright grin. "Aye, well, someone has to do it. Gas doesn't have a color or a smell to it, so until you're neck deep in it and breathing poison you don't even know it's there. That is if someone doesn't set it off with their lantern and take out the whole work crew in one go."

"Yes but," Bilbo said weakly. "There has to be a better way to get rid of it than _blowing it up on purpose_."

"Afraid not. And the only things that'll detect it proper without setting it off are fireflies - useful little buggers, they are. Best way to light up a mine shaft without blowing yourself to smithereens. Then it's all down to backing in and out of the gas pocket until you find out where it ends, then going far enough up the shaft that you don't lose your fingers when you set it off." Bofur's grin got wider as Bilbo's face got paler, and Dwalin snorted.

"Careful, you'll have him faint off his pony and we'll all have to stop until he wakes," he said - without realizing it, he'd ridden up the column as Bofur spoke. "Best not to poke at the burglar's delicate constitution."

"Delicate!" Bilbo's cheeks went red and his hands tightened on the pony's reins so much that she tossed her head irritably at him. "I am not - I've never - _delicate!_ "

Bofur laughed uproariously at the half-stuttered, indignant tirade from the hobbit, holding his stomach with one hand and waving the other at Dwalin in a quelling gesture.

"Bother and confound dwarves!" Bilbo burst out, scowling at the pair of them. "You're having me on about this, aren't you?"

Dwalin, seeing that Bofur wasn't likely to stop laughing anytime soon, took on himself to answer. "Knockermen are vital to the mines, and so to our livelihood. They're highly honored - Bofur's been a knockerman for nearly forty years. He has a reputation in the Blue Mountains as one of the best. They say he's luck-touched, since he still has all his bodyparts."

"You're _famous_ for nearly blowing yourself up?!" Bilbo squeaked, and that sent Bofur off all over again, positively howling with laughter, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Every time he took a breath to speak, he dissolved into guffaws again. It was helplessly endearing.

Dwalin cleared his throat and nudged his pony away from the pair of them, riding up to Thorin's right side to switch places with Fili, whose turn it was to ride rear patrol.

"If the ponies don't bring enemies down on our heads, that racket certainly will," Thorin grumbled, mouth pulled into a frown and his dark eyebrows knit together.

"Ah, leave off it, Thorin." Dwalin looked over his shoulder at the pair of them, Bofur gesturing wildly again and Bilbo's mouth twitching in a vain attempt to hold back a smile. Bofur beamed at the hobbit, and something sharp twisted in Dwalin's chest. He scowled, mostly at himself - there was no call for him to be jealous. "At least if the burglar is entertained he isn't complaining." When he turned back around, Thorin was looking at him with both eyebrows raised and an amused glint in his eye. "What?"

"You fancy the knockerman," Thorin said, sounding highly amused.

"You fancy the hobbit, so I suppose that makes us even," Dwalin said before he could stop himself. It was worth it for the utterly blank expression that descended on Thorin's face.

"The hobbit is a nuisance."

"Doesn't mean you don't fancy him."

Thorin was just as deft as Dwalin at changing the subject when it suited him. "You didn't deny it."

Dwalin grunted, offering no response but to stare fixedly ahead at the trail, resolutely ignoring Thorin's sideways looks. He would endure the teasing if it put that cheerful light back in Thorin's face - Mahal knew he didn't smile enough.

Thorin left off, at least until they made camp and there was better opportunity to talk without being overheard. "If you do fancy him, you might say something," he said, as they sat first watch away from the fire.

"No point," Dwalin grunted.

"No?"

"He's bloody _famous_ ," Dwalin said, as if that explained everything.

"You're not unknown yourself," Thorin said. "There are stories of you, fighting with the strength of Durin himself at Azanulbizar."

"If I had, less folk would be dead." Dwalin's voice was harsh - he did not want stories told of that battle. Nothing but heavy memories of grief lay there - in one stroke, he had lost his father, his king, and one of his best friends.

Thorin let that lie - neither of them had been the same after the Dimrill Dale. Dwalin had hoped he would let the other matter lie as well, but he should have known better. Once Thorin had fixed his mind on something, there was aught that could sway him from it. "It stands to reason then that most of the stories about Bofur are half-truths as well. I know I saw him lose dicing with Gloin the other night."

Thorin might have thought he was being reasonable, but Dwalin only made a wordless, annoyed sound in return, hoping he would drop it. Bofur was bright like a forge-fire, and he deserved better than a warrior plagued by battle-dreams and old regrets. Thorin took the hint, and they spent the rest of their watch in companionable silence. If Dwalin spent much of that time with a new ache very like regret nestled at the bottom of his ribs, that was his business and no other's.

* 

Bofur fully expected his ridiculous infatuation with Dwalin to run its natural course and eventually fade away into - he hoped - simple companionship. And it might have, too, but Bofur hadn't reckoned on seeing Dwalin _fight_.

He should have, given the nature of the quest. It was impossible to think they would trek halfway across Middle Earth and not run into somewhat worth sharpening their blades on, but knowing that something could theoretically happen and running smack into it were two different things.

He hadn't had much of a chance to see anything with the trolls, and frankly had been too busy worrying about not being eaten to pay attention to much else. It was the mad flight across the plains afterward, ahead of pursuing orcs, when he got a glimpse of Dwalin son of Fundin in his element.

It was enough to stop him in his tracks. Dwalin planted himself firm as a boulder at the rear of the company, shoving the lads violently after Ori and the burglar when they would have stayed to fight at his side. The orcs, charging headlong after them and hooting as they came, nevertheless slowed when faced with the mountain of a dwarrow, his axes held firm in either hand.

Dwalin let out a sky-shattering bellow, something that might have been a war cry but also might have been a filthy curse, and the nearest orc flung itself at him with its black, pointed teeth bared in a feral grimace. Dwalin moved fluidly, startlingly fast for someone so big, his axes gleaming in a deadly arc. The orc fell, its throat cut. It was the most gorgeous thing Bofur had ever seen.

The rest of the orcs chattered and skittered across the field like rats, sallying forward and then skipping away as Dwalin stood glaring at them, immovable and firm. It had only taken him a split second to dispatch the first, and its fellows were wary.

"Dwalin! Bofur!"

Dwalin jerked at the shout, half-turning, and his gaze landed on Bofur, standing dumbstruck - Bofur shut his mouth, hoping fervently that Dwalin wouldn't think he'd been staring like a fool, and grinned before darting after the rest.

It was damned uncomfortable to run with half a cock-stand and even more damned uncomfortable when he caught up to the others, Dwalin hard on his heels - mostly because Bifur made a gesture that couldn't be interpreted as anything _but_ lewd and Bombur stuffed part of his beard in his mouth to keep from choking on his laughter as they ran.

There was no time or breath to protest. Bofur resolved that he'd find something slimy to put in their bedrolls at his soonest opportunity.

He nearly forgot about that resolve, what with the running and the nearly getting killed by orcs and then the elves - which Bofur had nothing against, personally, only that they didn't seem to have a concept of what food was supposed to look like. Even the burglar's larder had been better stocked.

It was Bombur who reminded him. Of course. Brothers typically were useless for anything but embarrassment and making right nuisances out of themselves, so he should have expected it.

"So." Bombur settled himself next to Bofur. The rest of the company was out of earshot, resting (in most cases) or brooding (in Thorin's case) or cleaning their blades. Bofur was definitely _not_ staring Dwalin as his big, deft hands tended those axes, scrubbing at the blade with a bit of cloth to get the sticky orc blood off.

When Bofur didn't make any response, his brother nudged him with a sharp elbow to the side. How someone as round as Bombur had such sharp elbows, Bofur didn't know. "What?"

"You're quite taken with him." Bombur nodded at Dwalin, and Bofur flapped his hands at his brother, knowing he was coloring and unable to help it.

"I'm not-" at the sardonic, raised-eyebrow look that gained him from his brother, Bofur amended, "-Well all right, but even if I was, there's no call to go on bringing attention to it. It's not like I'd ever have a chance anyway, he's practically royalty."

Bombur stared at him. It wasn't sardonic this time, more like disbelieving. "You're supposed to be the clever one."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bombur threw up his hands and transferred his disbelieving stare to the stars above. "He stares at you," he told the sky. "The both of you are hopeless - worse than the king and the burglar. Sneaking glances across camp, don't think I haven't noticed."

"You're having me on," Bofur said, his pulse beating loud in his ears. Dwalin? Staring at him? "Like as not he's wondering how some half-daft miner managed to tag along on a heroic quest in the first place."

"More than half daft, I'd say. I always told you all those explosions would rattle your brains around. Seems they finally have."

"Now hang on a minute, _you're_ the daft one." It was impossible to deny he'd been pining just a _little bit_ after Dwalin, but if Bombur was going to sit there and tell him the reverse was true - well. Bofur would say he'd eat his hat, but his brother had always been keen on these things.

"I'll bet three month's wages if you offer him a tumble he'll take you up on it," Bombur said, and that very nearly sealed it. Out of the two of them, Bombur was the spendthrift in the family. He didn't wager, even in jest, if he wasn't certain of the outcome.

"You really think you're right."

"I _know_ I'm right."

Bofur was at a loss. It was impossible - flat impossible. He looked up across the circle of firelight and bedrolls - none but the burglar had taken the elves up on their offer of true beds, all of them either too used to sleeping rough or too suspicious of their hosts.

Dwalin was looking at him. Their eyes met, and Bofur swallowed hard, forcing himself not to look away even if he did feel the flush returning, creeping up his neck into his face.

It was Dwalin who looked away first, hastily, ducking his head as if he'd been caught out doing something he shouldn't. He scrubbed furiously at the blade of one of his axes.

"I'll be damned," Bofur murmured.

"Now would be a good time to do something about it," Bombur said peaceably, apparently not done meddling for the evening.

"Now - no, hang on. He's the right hand to the king, a warrior of the line of Durin, I can't just walk up to him and say 'Right then, you look like you could pin me up against a wall, fancy finding out?'"

Bombur made a noise like he was gagging, and Bofur grinned unrepentantly - served him right for nosing into business that wasn't his. "Is that how you - never mind, I don't want to know. You're _famous_ , for Durin's sake. You've got just as much call to be forward about what you want as he does. Mahal's balls, I can't believe this is a conversation we even have to _have_. Just talk to him. Like as not we'll all be roasted by an angry dragon in a few month's time. What do you have to lose?"

Most normal folk would have found that morbid, but Bofur had spent the better part of the last four decades one step away from death, and the thought didn't disturb him. There was good sense in what his brother was saying, and Bofur had never reckoned himself a coward.

Still, when they were all still weary from their desperate flight to escape the orcs was not a good time to be propositioning folk, especially not the folk who'd held the line at the rear for the rest of them to escape and were likely wearier than most of the rest of them put together.

"All right then, I will. Just not tonight."

"Well, do it soon, or Bifur's like to tell him. With explicit gesturing involved."

Bofur winced. "Soon. Promise."

He still doubted anything would come from it, but if enduring Bombur's barbed teasing had done nothing else, it gave him some measure of hope, however small.

* 

Whoever's idea it had been to go swimming in the bloody fountain, Dwalin wanted to string them up by their toes from the nearest tree. There were plenty of them around, he had options.

It was hard enough not to stare at Bofur while he had all his clothes on, much less now, naked as the day he was born and with his hair loosed from its plaits. It looked soft. Dwalin caught himself wondering what it would feel like to get his hands in it.

Bofur was laughing, straightening from yanking Fili under by his ankle and tossing his hair out of his face, when he caught Dwalin's eye. Dwalin froze like a caught rabbit, heat crawling up his face, and turned abruptly for the edge of the fountain and his breeches, determined not to embarrass himself. He didn't bother to do more than run a spare shirt over his skin to get the worst of the moisture off before yanking them on.

"Getting a little overheated?" Thorin asked. He was the only one of the lot of them besides the burglar who hadn't stripped bare and jumped in, apparently content to put his feet up and shake his head at the rest of their antics. Relaxation was a good look on him, despite how much he had protested about the blasted elves.

Dwalin growled at him, his face going redder, and stormed off down a hallway in search of a more _private_ location to bathe - one where he could imagine to his heart's content what Bofur might look like above him, loosed hair falling down his back in a dark wave.

"Dwalin! Hang on a minute!"

Dwalin was not the kind to shy away from anything, and so although he dreaded what might come next, he turned to face Bofur, who was pelting after him barefoot and bare-chested, his hair wet and plastered to his neck. He grinned, bright and irrepressible, and Dwalin's pulse beat faster at it.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment, neither of them sure of what to say. There was an aching tension in the air, taut as a bowstring. Bofur's gaze trailed over Dwalin, the grin gaining a sharper edge, and for a moment Dwalin felt like he was being examined like a prized stud pony - the thought was not entirely unwelcome, and contributed not a small amount to the problem of his cock, the reason he'd made a strategic retreat from the fountains in the first place.

Bofur walked right into his space with the same carefree air he'd had about him in that tavern so many weeks ago, like he had every right to be there and didn't give a damn who said otherwise. Dwalin's mouth was dry, and he could feel the flush returning.

"Is this for me, then?" Bofur asked, his eyes glittering with the same wicked light that danced around his smile, his hands settling lightly on Dwalin's hips like he wasn't sure of his welcome. Dwalin couldn't seem to make his tongue move, not hardly believing that this was even _happening_.

Bofur's expression shuttered, and he pulled his hands away like he'd been scalded. "Sorry - sorry. I cocked it up, didn't I? Knew you weren't-" Bofur shook his head, backing away a step. "Didn't mean any offense."

"No," Dwalin said, unexpectedly hoarse, wanting nothing more than to have that brilliant smile return. He was not a dwarf of many words, and instead of tripping over his leaden tongue, he closed the space between them again until he could feel the heat of Bofur's body against his, staring down at him red-faced and just as uncertain as Bofur looked - _Bofur_. Uncertain. That was enough to have him lean down slowly, so slowly, giving him plenty of time to back away if it was his wont.

Instead, Bofur surged up onto his toes and kissed him, setting the low throb of Dwalin's pulse to stuttering. Dwalin groaned into it and caught Bofur around the waist, pulling him closer still until they were skin to skin.

Dwalin pulled back, still not sure he had gotten it right, to see a slightly dazed look on Bofur's face, that ever-present smile even brighter than before. "Aye, that's what I'd hoped for," he murmured, his hands sliding up Dwalin's bare chest, callused fingers tangling in the thick hair. "Fancied you since I first laid eyes on you, I did, just didn't think-"

"You what?" Dwalin stared at him. " _You_ fancied _me?_ "

Bofur burst into laughter, the same infectious laugh that had stolen Dwalin's heart the first time he'd heard it. "I did! Do you blame me? Big mountain of a dwarf like you, famous warrior and related to royalty and all."

"You're the famous one. Durin's Balls, they talk about you from one side of Ered Luin to the other - say you've got Durin's own luck." 

"Oh, I feel like I do now. Durin's own luck." Bofur's eyes devoured him greedily, fingers tracing the lines of the tattoos on Dwalin's chest, angular and dark, a match for the ones on his crown.

Dwalin shook his head, smoothing one hand down Bofur's muscled back. Those lips were too tempting - he kissed Bofur again, now that he was sure of his welcome, still barely daring to believe he could _have_ this. 

Bofur was an eager armful, all tongue and hands, pulling Dwalin with him until his back thumped against the wall in a nearby alcove. They were still in the middle of the hallway, but Dwalin found he didn't give a damn - especially when Bofur's clever fingers found their way down the front of his breeches and wrapped around his cock.

"Mahal bless," Bofur said against his lips, and Dwalin turned red again from his neck to the bare crown of his head at the delighted anticipation in Bofur's voice. "You're just big everywhere, aren't you?"

Dwalin groaned in answer, especially when those clever fingers began to move, stroking up the length of his shaft with a firm grip. He tugged at Bofur's breeches, still half-unlaced, like he'd thrown them on in a hurry. He had them off in a trice and a double handful of Bofur's backside.

Bofur made a very pleased sound, but stopped Dwalin when he would kick the discarded breeches to the side. "Don't toss those yet, we'll need what's in the pocket." Dwalin pulled back enough to stare at the cheeky grin suffusing his face. "Be prepared - knockerman's motto. Never know what you'll run into, eh?"

Dwalin almost asked if he was certain - as Bofur had pointed out, he was not small. Part of him wanted to stop them here, wait until they were in a proper bed and he had the time to do all that he wanted - but then, they were on a mad quest to slay a dragon, and Mahal only knew when the next time they would have an opportunity like this.

He crouched to fumble a vial of oil out of the pockets of Bofur's breeches - which put him at eye level with Bofur's cock, and he was not about to let that opportunity pass by. He pressed the vial into Bofur's hand and then pinned him to the wall by his hips, sliding his tongue up the length of Bofur's cock to curl it around the head. He tasted like clean skin and salt, and as Dwalin slowly closed his mouth around the tip of Bofur's cock, he could feel Bofur's thighs quiver under his fingers.

Dwalin looked up the length of Bofur's body as he sucked him in further, the hard length resting on his tongue. Bofur's eyes were wide and dark, his mouth pinked from kisses and open on panted breaths. When their gazes met, Bofur slapped a hand over his mouth to contain a loud groan, the other clutched tight around the vial of oil.

It was a reminder of why he'd come down here in the first place, and as badly as Dwalin wanted to stay here with the lovely weight of Bofur's cock in his mouth, there was no telling when someone might come along and interrupt them. He let Bofur slip free of his lips, answering the punched-out huff of breath that resulted with a grin of his own, and stood back up, catching Bofur by the undersides of his thighs and hauling him up the wall.

"Oh yes, brilliant idea." Bofur hooked his knees over Dwalin's hips. "Can you do both, or do you want me to-?"

"I will," Dwalin said hoarsely, taking the vial from him and pouring a generous portion out onto his fingers. It still felt too fast, but Bofur certainly didn't seem to think so, rocking his hips in little movements that ground them together and made it very difficult to concentrate on his task.

At the first touch of Dwalin's slick fingers slipping behind his balls, Bofur arched, pressing into him, his head tipped back, his damp hair spilling over his shoulders and chest. Dwalin went slowly, his breath coming quick and heavy at how impossibly snug and tight Bofur felt around his fingers. He was mindful of the way Bofur moved, slowing further whenever he caught the sharp hiss of breath between his teeth.

Bofur would have none of it, rocking eagerly back into his touch even when he meant to gentle it, his knees tight around Dwalin's waist. He wrapped one hand around the back of Dwalin's neck and reeled him in for more kisses, sloppier now, mostly teeth and spit and bruised lips. "Should've done this weeks ago - c'mon, that's plenty."

"Not yet," Dwalin grunted, though his patience cost him - his cock ached, especially ground against Bofur's padded middle, firm underneath but soft and yielding on the surface. He eased a third finger in beside the other two, his wrist aching but not daring to stint on preparation.

"Yes _yet_ ," Bofur protested, nearly a whine, his fingers digging into Dwalin's shoulder and the back of his neck.

"Wouldn't have figured you'd last so long as a knockerman without patience," Dwalin panted, slowly spreading his fingers inside until Bofur cursed and thumped a fist against his chest.

"I have plenty of patience. Pined after you long enough, didn't I? Get in me and fuck me into the wall."

Dwalin's cock jumped at the words and he had to catch Bofur's mouth again to muffle the low growl it pulled from him. He twisted his fingers before pulling them free and hitched Bofur up higher on the wall, clutching his arse tight in both palms, cock nudging at the slick, loosened hole.

"Slowly now," he whispered, hoarse and thick-tongued. Bofur nodded mutely, going lax in Dwalin's arms, his head tipped back against the wall again. The muscles in Dwalin's arms corded with the effort of lowering him down, achingly slow.

The first breach of Dwalin's cock into him provoked a moan too loud to smother, echoing through the hall, and Dwalin's breath shuddered in through his teeth. Bofur was so bloody tight around him, hot and clinging. Dwalin's grip tightened to bruising and he paused, trembling with the effort of holding still. Inch by excruciating inch, he let Bofur slide down onto the length of him until at last he was seated snugly inside. Bofur's cock was pressed up against his stomach and his thighs shook where they were locked around Dwalin's waist.

"Dwalin, have mercy," Bofur gasped, trying to shift as best he could while pressed against the wall and impaled. "Come _on_."

Dwalin growled again, firming his grip on Bofur's arse before he moved, drawing out slowly to thrust in again. The position wasn't ideal - he could only manage short strokes, barely able to withdraw halfway, but Bofur was vocal in his appreciation.

"Mahal wept, that's _glorious_ that is - _ah!_ " Bofur's eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth open on a litany of praise and filthy encouragement. It set a fire roaring through Dwalin's blood and he thrust harder, every snap of his hips making Bofur scoot up the wall. They would both be bruised - Bofur from the stone against his back and Dwalin's fingers around his hips, and Dwalin from the vise-grip Bofur had on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

He was so beautiful, and Dwalin told him so, mumbling it into the smooth fall of his hair, just as soft as he'd imagined it would be. Bofur laughed, delighted and breathless.

"Dwalin," he groaned desperately, prying his hand loose from Dwalin's shoulders to curl it around his cock, knuckles bumping against the hard plane of Dwalin's stomach. "There, _there_ , oh mercy, you're so _big_."

"I've got you," Dwalin whispered, thighs shaking, driving into Bofur hard and shallow, the clinging heat around his cock making his thighs tremble. He wanted to see Bofur come first, wanted to watch his face when it happened.

He felt it coming from the way Bofur's hand tightened around the back of his neck and his back arched, his mouth falling open on a long, loud groan of Dwalin's name. His eyes were open and glazed with pleasure, and he spilled hot over his hand and stomach. That bright, beautiful grin returned, sated and a bit silly, and that was what did it for Dwalin - he drove in deep one last time and shuddered with the force of his climax.

They slid down the wall into a heap, still joined together, lips finding one another amid the tangle of Bofur's hair. Dwalin wrapped one arm around Bofur's back to steady him and gave into the temptation had had plagued him for weeks now, carding the fingers of his other hand through the soft fall of Bofur's hair, combing it away from his face, the callused tips of his fingers easing over Bofur's scalp.

"Mmmm, s'nice," Bofur said sleepily, and Dwalin could feel him still grinning against the skin of his neck. "Keep that up and you'll never be rid of me."

"Why would I want to be rid of you?" Dwalin asked gruffly, tightening his arm around Bofur's middle. "You're not getting rid of me either."

There was a pause. Bofur's voice was small and tentative when he asked, "Really?"

Dwalin pulled back far enough to look him in the eye. "You thought I was just after a tumble?"

Bofur shrugged, something shadowed around the edges of his smile. "I'm a knockerman. Famous, aye, but it doesn't stop folk from acting like I'm a dead dwarf walking."

Dwalin didn't quite know what to say to that. He drove away the sudden ache in his chest by kissing Bofur again, slow and gentle and closed-mouthed. "If you'll have a grumpy old warrior with more scars than flesh, you've got me."

"Oh, I'll have you," Bofur said. "In fact, find us a bath that's a little more private than a damned fountain and I'll show you exactly how I'll have you."

Despite that his cock was most assuredly spent, soft and slipping further out of Bofur every time he breathed, that made his pulse speed up again. "Aye, a bath. Might be a good idea." They were both all-over sweat and sticky with come, and neither of them had naught but damp breeches to clean themselves up with. "Think we might scandalize the elves a bit further?"

"They could do with a little bit of scandal." Bofur made a discontented sound when Dwalin finally slipped free of him, rising up on legs that shook only a bit, and offering Dwalin his hand. "Bath. Then bed, if we can find one. Then I can tell my brother to sod off."

Dwalin snorted, thinking of how he might tell Thorin to do the same thing, and let Bofur help him to his feet. Whatever he'd done to deserve the bright bundle of cheer that pulled him from the alcove without bothering to put his breeches on, a brilliant grin on his face and the light of mischief dancing in his eyes, he hoped some of Durin's own luck would rub off on him - at least enough to let him keep it.

**Author's Note:**

> The concept of knockermen is borrowed - with some modification - from Terry Pratchett's Discworld series.


End file.
